


Squeeze My Lemon ('Til the Juice Runs Down My Leg)

by supergrover24



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, M/M, bdsm undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-20
Updated: 2009-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:17:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supergrover24/pseuds/supergrover24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a moment where Pete thinks he can feel the air between them, heavy and thick with tension, and Pete's afraid that he's been reading this all wrong, that Brendon hasn't been sending out signals, or maybe Pete's been reading the signals as <i>want</i> instead of just pity.</p><p>There's a bit of hinting that Brendon gets off on pain, and that Pete would like to try that out. Nothing too explicit (well, regarding that) happens, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Squeeze My Lemon ('Til the Juice Runs Down My Leg)

**Author's Note:**

> Many beta thanks to lyo, duendeoflorien and especially femmequixotic, who was sent an email every 300 words or so. Google tells me there are squirrels in Vegas; please let me know if Google lied. Any remaining mistakes are mine—please point them out so I can fix.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is set five years in the future, so I'm guessing it's not true.
> 
> With apologies to Led Zeppelin for title and other things.

Pete really doesn't know why he's standing outside Brendon's house, pushing the doorbell over and over. He can't hear any noise from inside, but Brendon's car is in the driveway and Dylan is barking faintly, unless it's a dog on the next street over. He doesn't think so, though.

Out of habit, Pete looks up and down the street for cameras before he leans close to the window, cupping his hands around his face to block out the glare. All he can see is Brendon's couch, guitar propped up against the back, and a bong on the coffee table, but no Brendon. He checks over his shoulder when he hears a noise, laughing at himself when a pair of squirrels shoot past him on the lawn. He forgets sometimes, still, that it was Ashlee the cameras were interested in, not him, and since they're not married anymore his life is a lot less documented. It happens, but not as often as when he has Bronx with him.

"Of course," he mutters, pushing his face against the glass again, "it would be today that Pete Wentz would be outed as a peeping tom."

"Don't you mean a peeping Pete?"

Pete whirls around so fast that his feet don't move with him and he stumbles a bit, prompting Brendon's smirk to turn into a full-blown grin.

"What, you're so desperate you need to get your jollies by lurking in bushes and peering in windows?"

"Jollies, really?" Pete walks forward, grabbing Brendon in a hug. "Practically ten years later and you still call it jollies?"

Brendon thumps him on the back (extra hard, Pete thinks) as they hug. "Yeah, well. Between your kid and Jon's and my nieces and nephews, I've had to learn all over again to watch what I say." He steps back, running a hand through his hair to the back of his neck. "Cassie got pretty ticked when I accidentally taught JJ to tell his dad not to be a jerkoff."

Pete smiles, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie to keep from hugging Brendon again. It's been a while since they've seen each other, and each time it gets harder to not touch him. But it's been even longer since they touched in any way that wasn't as just friends and Pete doesn't want to fuck it up. He needs his friends more than he needs a fuck anyway.

"B-Mow with Ash this weekend?" Brendon has no trouble touching Pete, though, curling his hand around Pete's elbow and leading him down the side of the house toward the backyard.

"Yeah, until the end of school actually. I have too many trips this month, so it was easier this way." Pete maybe purposely trips so he can feel Brendon tighten his grip. "And I told you to stop calling him B-Mow."

"Beemer?"

"Also no, Brendon." Pete smiles to himself. They've been having variations of this argument since Bronx was born five years ago.

"Not my fault you named him something so perfect for shortening." Brendon slips away when they get to the back, bending over to unclip Dylan's chain.

Pete stares unabashedly at Brendon's ass. He doesn't even lie to himself that it's not what he's doing.

Brendon turns around with a slight smirk on his face, but Pete doesn't think he was caught. He doesn't even care if he _was_ caught. Mostly. He really didn't come to Brendon's to do anything other than relax, to get outside of his own head for a bit.

"What brings you to Vegas?" Brendon lets him off the hook, instead herding them all up to the deck, where Dylan curls up on her dog bed in the shade. Brendon drops down onto one of the recliners, pushing his mandolin to the bottom of the chair with his toes.

Pete shrugs, digging a pick out of his pocket and grabbing the mandolin before he sits down on the oversize ottoman next to Brendon. He balances the instrument on his lap, running his left hand up and down the fretboard. It's a little narrower than his; probably older. He hasn't played in a while, months really, so he just finds his way through a D-scale, up and down and back again.

"You're doing it wrong," Brendon says.

Pete looks up at him, then back down at his fingers. "What do you mean? I hit all the right notes."

Brendon laughs, softly. "No, yeah. That was fine. You're just. Here." He reaches over to Pete, moving Pete's fingers around the pick for him. "You're supposed to hold the plectrum like this, flat between your thumb and fist. Not like you're playing guitar."

Pete blinks down, Brendon's fingers slightly paler against his own. "What the fuck is a plectrum?"

"It's the pick, dude." Brendon moves back, and Pete swears his hand feels colder. "If you hold it like a guitar, your tremolo won't sound as smooth."

"My what?" Pete suddenly feels stupid, out of his element. He starts plucking out "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" slowly, trying to remember the notes, humming under his breath, getting used to the weird way of holding the pick. Plectrum. Thing, whatever. He lets his frustration get the better of him, a painful _twang_ echoing from the mandolin. "Fuck," Pete spits out.

"Hey, hey. Pete," Brendon speaks softly as he moves, hands gently pulling the mandolin from Pete's grasp. "Careful, man, that thing's almost a hundred-years-old."

Pete looks up, meeting Brendon's questioning gaze with what he hopes is a blank stare. "Really? And you just leave it lying around? I bought mine new from a Guitar Center for like, three hundred bucks, and I—."

"Pete," Brendon cuts him off. "What the fuck, man?"

"Nothing! Just…" Pete stops mid-sentence, sighing. "Just play something?" He shifts on the ottoman, reclining so his head hangs off the back and he can look at the world upside-down. There's something there, words almost at the surface about how his upside-down view of Brendon's roof matches his inner turmoil, but he's mainly wondering if Brendon's looking at the strip of skin he can feel exposed above his jeans where his hoodie and t-shirt rides up.

Brendon doesn't say anything, picking out notes at random before settling into a song. Pete listens, focusing on the way Brendon's fingers don't make a squeaking noise as he makes chord changes, the almost silent _plunk_ of the pick— _plectrum_ —against the strings.

"Dude, are you playing Zeppelin?"

"Yeah, 'Black Dog.'" Brendon's quiet for a few more measures. "I found this album that came out, like, ten years ago? Eleven, maybe? Anyway, Zeppelin, bluegrass style. Which isn't really that much of a stretch, really. It was pretty much there in the original, y'know?"

Pete huffs out a noise of agreement, and Brendon transitions into "All My Love" smoothly.

"That's a tremolo, by the way," Brendon says out of nowhere.

"What is?" Pete sits up, grabbing the edge of his seat as the blood rushes away from his head, leaving him a little dizzy.

Brendon stops the song and just plays one note over and over, fast, his forearm moving in a tightly controlled motion. "That," he says.

He segues right back into another Zeppelin song, and Pete stares at Brendon's fingers moving on the fret, picking out individual notes faster than Pete can process. He looks at the muscles move on his forearm, the piano and flowers added to over the years, all just as weird and perfect choices for Brendon. Pete swallows tightly as Brendon does another one of those tremolo things, his right arm tensing, muscles taut, and it's then Pete notices Brendon staring at him, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

"How old did you say that was?" Pete nods toward the mandolin.

"Um." Brendon blinks but continues to play. "It's...I don't know. Around ninety? Yeah. 1924 Gibson A-style. A-five, specifically. During the Loar period. He was, like, this amazing guy, he—"

"Brendon," Pete sighs, knowing Brendon could spend the next twenty minutes talking about this guy and mandolins and shit, all Pete wants is for him to put it down. When Brendon just looks at him, eyes wide with a spark of mischief in them, Pete reaches out, squeezing Brendon's wrist to get him to stop strumming.

There's a moment where Pete thinks he can feel the air between them, heavy and thick with tension, and Pete's afraid that he's been reading this all wrong, that Brendon hasn't been sending out signals, or maybe Pete's been reading the signals as _want_ instead of just pity. He pulls his hand back, preparing to make up some excuse about something, anything, but Brendon stops him, tangling their fingers together.

"How much did you pay for that?" Pete nods towards the mandolin, honestly curious, but his voice sounds tense even to him.

"Um. Fifty grand? Why, did you want to get one?"

Pete laughs, low. "No, I just want to know how much I'm gonna owe you if it breaks when you drop it." He tugs Brendon's hand, not hard, but enough to pull him toward the edge of the chaise, enough for Pete to get his point across. Brendon's breath hitches, and suddenly Pete knows he's right about this, the way he and Brendon have been building to this over texts and phone calls the past few months.

"Let me, um, just." Brendon shifts, leaning backward to lay the mandolin in its case, gripping Pete's hand tighter for balance. Pete watches the play of muscles in Brendon's arm, the way his shirt pulls up a little, showing skin and a stripe of bright purple underwear. As soon as Brendon starts to face Pete again, Pete yanks him forward and off the chair, his other hand grabbing Brendon's hip, catching him before his knees hit the deck to get him to straddle Pete's lap.

"Whoa," Brendon says, grabbing onto Pete's shoulders for support.

Pete grins, he can't help it and he knows it must look stupid, but he doesn't care. "Hold on a sec," he mutters, pushing Brendon up so he's kneeling over him as he slides to the center of the ottoman. He runs his hands up Brendon's legs, thumbs brushing the insides of his thighs before veering back out to grasp Brendon's hips. Brendon's looking down at him, eyes open, radiating heat and want. Pete deliberately slips his fingers under Brendon's shirt, skimming softly over skin, feeling the slight catch in Brendon's breathing but nothing else giving him the idea that Brendon really does want this.

It's like a game now, to see how far he can push Brendon before he makes a move. Pete flicks his tongue out, licking the corner of his mouth, causing Brendon to mimic the movement, his eyes going impossibly wider. Pete tilts his head further back, slowly dropping his hands to his sides, causing his hips to tilt up toward Brendon, but not connecting yet. He doesn't blink, just holds Brendon's gaze, lets his breath come quicker, and shifts to remind Brendon how close they are.

"Oh, fuck," Brendon whispers, right before he shuffles forward, rocking against Pete for one slow roll as he lowers his hips to settle on Pete's lap again. Pete strains toward him a bit, until their foreheads touch, too. "Fuck, Pete," Brendon mutters, "Fucking kiss me, okay?"

Pete exhales in a rush as he sits up quickly, hands tangling in Brendon's hair, bringing their mouths together in a hard press of lips. He doesn't do subtle on his best days, knows Brendon wants it just as much as he does, so he presses his thumbs to Brendon's jaw, forcing his mouth open so Pete can drag his tongue along Brendon's. It's hot and wet, sloppier than he likes, but it's still the best kiss he's had in years, the stuff his fantasies have been made of since he first went to a garage in Vegas.

Brendon's fingers grab the back of Pete's hair, jerking his head back, opening his mouth wider as they keep kissing. Pete moans, he can't help it, but it makes Brendon whimper and shift closer on his lap. Brendon drags his hand down Pete's neck, wrapping around and applying just enough pressure to Pete's throat to make Pete instantly hard, taking deep breaths even as he pushes his tongue back into Brendon's mouth, scraping his teeth along Brendon's lower lip. Pete drops a hand to Brendon's waist, lining up their hips so Brendon can feel Pete's dick against his.

"Pete," Brendon gasps.

Pete keeps rocking up to meet Brendon, pushing together, listening to the wet sound of their lips and tongues against the backdrop of birds singing and someone running a lawn mower. It's deliciously hot, making out with Brendon on his back deck, knowing they could be caught. He grins against Brendon's mouth, laughing at Brendon's muttered "What, what? Tell me."

Instead, Pete just presses his lips harder against Brendon's before skimming his hands up Brendon's side, gathering the shirt in his fingers licking a trail up Brendon's sternum in its wake, until Brendon stretches his arms toward the sky. Pete pushes the shirt over Brendon's head, up over his elbows, before using it to maneuver Brendon's arms behind his back. The long line of Brendon's torso, skin paler than Pete expected, nipples tight in the breeze, the scant dusting of hair surrounding them, and the line of darker hair trailing down from his navel all combine to make Pete suddenly desperate.

He yanks harder on the shirt, pulling Brendon's shoulders taut and eliciting a noise from Brendon's mouth that sounds obscene.

"Is that all it takes to get you to moan?" Pete's voice sounds low to his own ears, breathy. "Barely touching you and you're making sounds like that. Makes me wonder..."

Brendon grinds down harder against him. "Makes you wonder what?" Brendon sounds entirely too calm, despite the proof otherwise.

"What you'll sound like with my cock in your throat, or up your ass." Pete pushes his hips up as he pulls harder on the shirt, causing Brendon to arch his back. It's the perfect angle for Pete to nibble along Brendon's ribs, tightening his grip on the shirt and Brendon's waist when he jumps, the deep sound shifting to laughter as he complains that it tickles.

"Let me, c'mon," Brendon gets out between laughs. "Let me touch, too."

Pete tugs the shirt the rest of the way off Brendon's arms and Brendon immediately reaches for the zipper of Pete's hoodie, kissing Pete hard as he gets it undone and pushed off Pete's shoulders. "It's Vegas, Pete. Why're you wearing so many shirts?" He's trying to pull Pete's t-shirt up over his head before getting the hoodie all the way off, which results in a tangle of arms and hands, and a painful moment when the zipper gets caught in Pete's hair, but then they're skin to skin, not sweating yet, but still hot as they slide together, mouths seeking each other's again.

It's been years since Pete's felt rough, calloused hands running over his body instead of a soft manicured touch. Brendon's hands have strength in them; Pete can sense it even though Brendon's doing nothing more than cockteasing him by running his fingers up and down Pete's back. Pete squeezes his hands tighter around Brendon's waist, inches above Brendon's crotch, and is rewarded with another low groan and Brendon's knees clamping tight against his ass.

"Hmm, someone have a thing for pain?" Pete bends his head forward, watching as he brings his hands up Brendon's torso to his nipples, pinches them both hard at the same time, no preamble whatsoever. Brendon keens, there's no other way to put it, and he yanks Pete's head back up by his hair. They stare at each other for a few seconds, and Brendon's eyes are blown wide, breaths coming fast and Pete just _wants_.

He grabs at Brendon's belt, fumbling to get it undone, and before it's even unbuckled, Brendon's doing the same to him, hands rushing, knuckles clashing until both their pants are undone and their underwear is pushed down far enough that the tips of their cocks are out. They both hiss out a groan when their cocks slip against each other, Brendon's head shiny and purple next to the darker tones of Pete's. Pete can't stop looking at them, brushing against each other, giggling in his head that it really does look a sword fight and Christ, is he twelve or what?

Brendon distracts him, hands tight on Pete's jaw, tilting his face up to meet his mouth in a kiss full of tongue and the dirty promise of _more_. And fuck, Pete wants more. "I wanna feel you tight around me," Pete tells him. "Would you like that? Right here, outside where anyone can see, you riding me?" Pete shoves a hand down the back of Brendon's pants, feeling the heat, slicking up a finger in the sweat pooling between Brendon's asscheeks and sliding the point of his middle finger around the rim of his hole before slipping it inside a fraction of an inch.

"Jesus Christ," Brendon gasps. "Pete, Pete, Pete, fuck." Brendon clenches around his finger, hot and tight before suddenly shifting backward, and Pete's finger is buried up to second knuckle. His hand is bent at an awkward angle, but Brendon's trembling around him, on top of him, and Pete pushes closer, bites a nipple and Brendon swears again.

"Fuck, close, so close already." Brendon's eyes are shut and he's breathing hard, and wow, Pete so doesn't want this to end yet.

"Brendon, stop." He says it evenly, impressed with himself, but more impressed at how still Brendon goes, like someone gave him a tranquilizer and not a finger up his ass. "Wow," Pete breathes out. "We're gonna have to play with that some day. Fuck, Brendon." He slips his finger free, leaving his hand cupping Brendon's ass tightly enough to leave fingerprint bruises the next day.

"Hey, hey," Pete whispers against Brendon's chin. "Look at me, c'mon."

Brendon opens his eyes, meets Pete's gaze for a handful of seconds before blinking rapidly. "Sorry, um. Got a little carried away there." He's blushing, faintly, and Pete thinks it's fucked of him to find that hotter than most of what they've already done that day.

Pete tilts his head up and meets Brendon for a soft kiss. "Don't apologize, man. Fucking hot shit right there." Brendon kisses him again, rocking forward enough to push his cock up against Pete's stomach, smearing a trail of precome on the bartskull. "Can I fuck you?"

Brendon nods, quickly, before swearing. "Not um, not out here? I don't…do you have stuff?"

Pete shakes his head. "In the car. I can get it?" He really doesn't want to go around to the front of Brendon's house, not like this, but he pulls his hand out of Brendon's jeans anyway.

"Nah," Brendon says. "Um, inside, yeah. I should've thought of. Well. Didn't think we'd be out here." He kisses Pete's cheek, apologetically, before shimmying backward.

"Should've thought of what?" Pete helps him stand up, and can't resist leaning forward to swirl his tongue around the tip of Brendon's dick before sucking lightly on the head. He's rewarded with Brendon's hands tight in his hair and the tension of Brendon's effort to not slam his hips into Pete's face.

"Holy fuck, warn a guy." Brendon laughs. "C'mon, up, up. We can go inside. There's stuff in there." Brendon tugs on Pete's hair, and Pete lets Brendon's cock fall from his mouth with an exaggerated popping sound. He stands, body in contact with Brendon's the whole time, until they're kissing again. Pete wraps an arm around Brendon's waist and the other around his shoulders and pulls him tight against him, shares the taste of Brendon's precome until Pete's the one groaning and breathing hard.

He grabs Brendon's hips, spinning him around toward the sliding door, crowding behind Brendon to shuffle them forward. "Inside, now," he says, less evenly than before. Dylan jumps up from her spot in the corner to run around their legs, tail wagging until Brendon opens the door. She runs through the kitchen, Pete has no idea where, too busy with sliding his hand down the front of Brendon's jeans, cupping his balls through the underwear. Brendon stumbles and laughs, threading his fingers with Pete's before pulling their hands out of his pants.

"Shit, wait!" Brendon drops Pete's hand and runs back onto the porch to grab the mandolin case. Pete laughs at Brendon's priorities, while his are on toeing his sneakers off without losing his balance. Brendon grins as he comes back inside, setting the mandolin on the kitchen table and kicking his flip-flops off at the same time.

Pete barely has time to shut the door before Brendon spins him around and pushes him up against the refrigerator, hard enough to tip over whatever is on top so that it rolls to the ground. There's a magnet digging into the middle of his back but he can't complain when Brendon sinks to his knees in front of him, kissing and biting his way down his chest as he goes. "Shit, Brendon," Pete chokes out. Brendon grins up at him, unzipping Pete's jeans the rest of the way. He's mouthing the length of Pete's dick through his underwear, the damp cotton feeling like the best kind of torture.

"Stop teasing, man, and fucking suck me." Pete's voice sounds way more desperate than he thinks it should this early on, but fuck, Brendon's _mouth_ is practically on his dick, and Pete's been fantasizing about this on and off for longer than he'll ever admit. Brendon looks up at him, eyebrow raised, as he slowly reveals Pete's cock, maintaining eye contact when he sticks his tongue out to lap gently—too gently—at the tip. Pete pushes his hips forward, testing, and Brendon responds by clasping his hands behind his back, smirking.

"Yeah?" Pete fists his cock a little, rubs it against Brendon's lips until Brendon closes his eyes and opens his mouth. He slides forward with a sigh, keeping his hand curled around the base and letting Brendon set the pace at first, nice and slow, a lot of spit, until Brendon hums around him, lips meeting his fingers. "Yeah, okay," Pete says, and lets go, reaching forward to cup Brendon's face, brushing his thumb along Brendon's cheek, under his eye. Brendon looks up at him again, eyes solemn as he slowly sinks all the way down on Pete's cock. "Fuck!" Pete wasn't expecting that, somehow, thought they'd go slower than this, but fuck. He grabs the refrigerator with one hand to keep his balance, and Brendon's hair with the other, pulling him almost off Pete's dick and pushing him back down when he snaps his hips forward.

Brendon's throat offers a bit of resistance and Pete can feel Brendon fighting his gag reflex, but he holds him there, watching him fight to breathe through his nose, feeling the harsh exhales against his pubes and shit, he shouldn't be so turned on by this. He lessens his grip on Brendon's hair slightly, petting him as Brendon moves up and down on his cock under his own control.

"God, Brendon, so hot like this, on your knees." Pete can't stop babbling; he never can shut up during sex. Ashlee would giggle at him sometimes, indulgent, but it didn't do anything for her. It seems to spur Brendon on, though, and Pete keeps talking, telling him how tight his mouth is, how he can't wait to feel his tight ass around his cock, watch it sink into his ass like his cock is sinking into his mouth. Brendon's rocking back and forth, moaning around Pete's dick. His hands are still behind his back and Pete wishes he could see Brendon's cock straining out of his pants, see if he's leaking onto the floor.

He yanks Brendon back by his hair, pulls him completely off his cock to watch the trail of spit connecting them still. "What?" Brendon rasps out, voice rough.

"Up, c'mon." Pete tugs gently on Brendon's hair, offers him his hand to hold as he struggles to stand, groaning as his knees pop with the strain. Pete kisses him as soon as he's upright, pushing his tongue roughly into Brendon's mouth, chasing the taste of himself that he knows must be there. Brendon places his palms on Pete's chest, runs them up to cup Pete's face like he did outside. Pete bites at Brendon's bottom lip, groaning when Brendon retaliates and presses closer, before spinning them around so Brendon's up against the fridge. Pete pushes harder, trying to line up their cocks enough so that they'll press together. The second time his hits Brendon's pubic bone and bends uncomfortably he swears and pulls back. He looks down, wrapping a hand around them both, pulling them away from zippers and hips, before he glances back to Brendon's face.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Pete steps back abruptly.

"Huh?" Brendon's leaning on the fridge, and surrounding his head are drawings of Pete and Brendon and Ryan and Hemingway that he recognizes from his own cluttered kitchen. "Dude, you have the most horrified look on your face right now. Are you freaking out?"

Pete shakes his head, but grabs Brendon's hand, walking backward to lead him toward the living room. "I cannot fuck you against shit my kid drew for you. That's just fucking wrong somehow."

Brendon's expression slides from confusion to amusement, and then he starts giggling, "Your face!" coming out between laughs, but he stops abruptly when Pete lets go to push his pants and underwear all the way down. Pete watches Brendon's eyes go dark, the way he licks his lips as Pete strokes himself slowly. Brendon doesn't really do anything else, though and Pete's starting to feel a little self-conscious and stupid, standing there with a hand on his dick, and pushes his hair out of his eyes with the other. It seems to snap Brendon out of his trance, because he surges forward to kiss Pete again, hard, his tongue forcing its way inside Pete's mouth. Pete stumbles back a bit, before realizing that Brendon is trying to guide him back to the chair against the wall. The oversize armchair Brendon says everyone mocked him for buying, but Pete thinks Brendon had a secret plan all along because he can think of nothing better than fucking Brendon in this chair.

Pete sits down, pulling Brendon between his legs, kissing various spots on Brendon's stomach before licking in and around his belly button, just to hear Brendon's breathless giggle turn into a moan when he shifts suddenly to lap at the head of Brendon's cock. Pete tightens his lips, sucking hard as he peels Brendon's pants all the rest of the way off. He pulls off Brendon's dick with an obnoxious slurping noise, leaning back in the chair with a grin as he watches Brendon kick away his clothes.

"C'mere," Pete orders. Brendon quirks an eyebrow but obeys anyway, straddling Pete easily like he had outside. Pete likes the feel of Brendon's skin against his, the rasp of their leg hair brushing together as they adjust their positions. Brendon grips the padded arms of the chair, and Pete traces the lines of muscle and tendons first with his eyes then his fingers as he reaches to squeeze Brendon's biceps, tight enough to leave faint bruises, hopefully. He wants Brendon to think about this later, to remember it for days and weeks. He wants this to happen again and again, not just today, but if it doesn't, he wants Brendon to relive it on his own.

"Hey, what're you thinking about?" Brendon whispers, his lips against Pete's temple, kissing softly.

Pete shakes his head slightly, bringing his lips to Brendon's and sliding his hands up to cup Brendon's jaw as he forces his tongue inside Brendon's mouth. Brendon sighs, but opens to him every which way, spreading his legs and inching forward as much as can. Pete settles a bit, pushing his ass to the end of the chair for the best leverage as he rocks his hips up against Brendon. They both gasp as their cocks brush accidentally, and Pete searches for a rhythm, holding on to Brendon's waist and writhing up against him. Brendon stretches his arms out to hold on to the back of the chair, over Pete's head, his torso a long line Pete can't look away from, Brendon's dick hard and heavy, pointing away from his stomach toward Pete's as their hips press together. Brendon is undulating against him, his body moving in an S-curve, something Pete swears only exists in porn and with strippers, but it figures Brendon can do it seemingly naturally.

He pulls Brendon onto his knees and sits up, running his tongue over Brendon's chest, up to his neck, biting there gently and then with a little more force when Brendon lets out a moan. Brendon twists a hand through Pete's hair, tugging his face up for another kiss, dirty and wide-mouthed, tongues chasing each other back and forth. The sound of their wet mouths moving against each other, the smacking noises they make is all Pete can hear and it shouldn't turn him on even more, but it does. Brendon sinks back down, Pete's cock sliding under his balls into the crack of his ass, and they both swear at the contact.

"I've been thinking about this," Pete admits, nipping at the underside of Brendon's jaw.

"Yeah? All day?" Brendon shivers at the contact, tipping his chin up so Pete keeps his mouth there, applying more pressure as he kisses and bites down the column of Brendon's throat.

Pete chuckles, licking the hollow of Brendon's clavicle. "Try months. Or years, sometimes, on and off." He hates the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but Brendon nods, whispering agreement in his ear.

Brendon's skin is slick with sweat and Pete's dick moves easily, up and down, their movements getting more frantic and Pete grips Brendon's ass, slowing them down. He sits back, pushing on Brendon's hips to keep him upright, and moves his right hand around to cup Brendon's balls, lifting them gently in his palm, pressing his fingers just behind, grinning when Brendon shudders.

"I've been thinking about _this_ ," Pete says, sliding his left hand over the swell of Brendon's ass to trace over his cleft until he can run his finger around the rim. Brendon pushes up onto his knees more, bracing one hand on the arm of the chair and wrapping the other around his cock, stroking slowly. The shift allows Pete to push his index finger in and out slowly, following the movements of Brendon's body.

 _"More," Brendon whines. "Please, Pete. More, c'mon, more." He starts rocking up and down, and Pete pulls his finger out to run two through the sweat gathering at the base of Brendon's back and in between the cleft of his ass before roughly pushing two fingers inside. Brendon cries out, and Pete's arousal spikes even more, his cock as he slides his fingers out. They start moving again, Brendon meeting his upward thrusts and when Pete's cock slips and pushes into Brendon slightly, Pete doesn't stop._

 _"Oh, fuck yes," Brendon hisses, rocking back onto Pete, and Pete wants to thrust hard, wants desperately to feel Brendon tight and hot around him, but it's dry despite the sweat and he knows they need a condom, he _knows_ they do, yet he can't help pushing gently until the head of his dick is almost completely inside._

"Pete, Pete," Brendon keeps saying his name, and Pete is so close to forgetting himself, but he stops, he pulls out and he's shaking, but Brendon bends over to kiss him hard and a bit desperate.

"Condoms, we need—fuck." Pete breaks off to gasp when he feels Brendon's hand wrap around his cock, jerking him off slowly. "Lube, Brendon. Condoms. I need—damn it, stop doing that." Brendon laughs, low and throaty, before he lets go of Pete completely to shuffle backward until he's standing. "What, where are you going?" Pete moves as if he's going to get out of the chair, but Brendon pushes his shoulder down.

"Just getting what we need," Brendon explains. Pete watches him walk over to the fireplace, admires the way Brendon's comfortable with being naked, his mouth going dry when Brendon rises onto his toes to reach into a box on top of the mantle. Brendon turns around, blushing. "I kinda hid some stuff in various places? But, um, y'know, where my nieces and nephews wouldn't find it."

Pete smirks, because he gets it. Bronx has found enough shit he shouldn't over the past few years, and god. He forces himself to stop thinking of his kid (and his marriage and how he hasn't had sex with a guy—or anyone—in a really long time) and runs his hands lightly over Brendon's skin as soon as he straddles Pete in the chair again.

"Hi," Brendon says against his lips.

"Hi," Pete whispers back. Brendon is fumbling with the lube between their chests, but by the time Pete gets it together enough to help, Brendon has slipped a hand back and is fingering himself open. "Fuck, that's really hot." Pete's lifts Brendon's balls up, cupping them against his cock so the view isn't blocked—and fuck, Brendon's already using two fingers, slick and shiny with lube.

"Can I?" Pete doesn't wait for an answer, just pushes his middle finger in alongside Brendon's, amazed at how tight it is, even with three fingers. Brendon hunches over, rests his head on Pete's shoulder, and Pete can feel every exhale against his neck, every effort Brendon is making to relax. Pete rubs Brendon's back, whispers about how hot Brendon is like this, how much Pete wants him and it seems to help him calm down, because it's only a minute or two before Brendon's rocking lightly and running his tongue along Pete's skin.

When Brendon moves to straighten, Pete lets his finger slip out gently with Brendon's. He maintains eye contact with Brendon as he opens the condom and rolls it on his cock, accepts the lube when Brendon hands it to him. The mood seems solemn, almost, too quiet, but Pete is hesitant to break it with words. What they're about to do—what they've apparently thought about doing with each other for months—Pete doesn't want Brendon to think it's less than it really is, even if Pete doesn't know _what_ it is, exactly.

Pete glides his hand down Brendon's ass to trace the rim of his hole, slightly swollen and open, and he rubs more lube around and inside. Brendon's coating Pete's cock with it, squeezing as he does before shifting to guide Pete as he slowly sinks down onto his cock. Pete keeps his hand there, fascinated with the way Brendon's ass feels stretched around his cock, the way Brendon shivers when Pete runs a finger along the rim, tracing where it envelopes his dick.

"Jesus, Pete, just fuck me already," Brendon groans. He's moving up and down, fingers digging into Pete's shoulders so hard Pete's sure there will be marks later and he looks forward to seeing them in the mirror. "Harder, come _on_."

"Dude, are you seriously whining right now?" Pete means for it to come out in a teasing manner, but he's already so close to the edge and it comes out breathless. He tries to hide it by clamping down on Brendon's waist and holding him still while he circles his hips slowly, but Brendon is grinning with his eyes closed and Pete knows he can tell how much this is affecting him and he gives up. "Shit, Brendon, so tight. You're so tight, Christ. I've wanted this for so fucking long."

Brendon laughs, a bright noise that should sound out of place amidst the grunting and slap of skin on skin, but it doesn't, and Pete wants to hear more. Pete lifts Brendon up until just the head of his cock is still inside and tells Brendon to stay there as he lets go.

"Oh, god, Pete." Brendon's thighs are shaking, muscles quivering, and he has one hand wrapped around his cock and the other grabs Pete's hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. "Please, let me move, please."

"No," Pete replies.

Brendon whimpers, something Pete could get very used to hearing. He pushes up a little, testing, but Brendon stays where he is, letting Pete set the pace, controlling how deep he goes.

"Don't you want more?" Brendon asks, looking down at Pete. "Come on, you keep saying how long you've wanted this. Don't you want to fuck me hard? Feel your cock all the way in me, and have it still not be enough?" Pete shouldn't be surprised at the manipulation; he's witnessed Brendon's conniving to get his way often enough over the years. It's just really hot in this instance—really hot and really effective. He wraps a hand around the one Brendon has on his cock and makes him jack himself off for a few strokes before he pulls both their hands away over Brendon's protests.

"You're right," Pete says. "Get off of me and get on the floor. On your back." Pete drops his hands to the arm of the chair, holds on tightly to stop from touching Brendon the way he wants to.

"Pete," Brendon starts, but something on Pete's face makes him stop mid-sentence. He winces as he pulls up, causing Pete to withdraw. "Fine, but we're both gonna get rug burn." He shuffles backward until he can stand up shakily and Pete steadies him without thought, hands on his hips. Brendon smiles down at him, but Pete takes his cock into his mouth instead of replying, sucking hard on the head before opening his mouth to slide down further. Brendon swears, tipping his face up toward the ceiling as he breathes harshly. He wraps his fingers in Pete's hair but doesn't try to control him, just holds on as Pete glides up and down his cock, until he suddenly pulls Pete off with a loud groan. "So close, shit."

Pete glances up at Brendon, taking in his flushed cheeks, eyes tightly shut, chest heaving with every breath. He guides Brendon backward a few steps so he can stand slowly, knees protesting, keeping their bodies close together, Brendon's dick dragging against Pete's chest as he rises. Brendon leans forward blindly, and they kiss, mouths open and tongues meeting before their lips do. Brendon's hands are still in Pete's hair and Pete holds on to Brendon's hips as they move together, cocks brushing with every simulated thrust.

Finally, Pete walks forward, moving Brendon with him before he lowers them both to the floor. Brendon smirks up at him as he spreads his legs, his left foot hooking over the back of Pete's thighs, pulling him off-balance. Pete falls, catching himself on his hands just before he lands completely on Brendon. They're laughing at each other, easy, until Pete pushes up on one hand as he guides himself back to Brendon's hole.

Brendon hisses at the first push, but cants his hips up all the same and Pete sinks in all the way with groan. Brendon hitches his leg up higher, foot resting on the small of Pete's back and Pete helps him, holding on right where his leg meets his ass. Brendon brings his other leg closer to his chest and Pete suddenly can go even deeper, fuck. He tries to lean forward more to kiss Brendon, but can't quite get there, has to settle for brushing his lips on Brendon's chin.

Pete can feel Brendon snake a hand between their bodies toward his cock but he just holds it, doesn't try to get himself off.

"Brendon, you can come, it's okay," Pete gets out between thrusts. "Want you to."

Brendon shakes his head a little and laughs. "No, 's too soon. Wanna feel this more."

Something about Brendon wanting to wait does Pete in, and he starts fucking him faster, swearing as his knees drag on the carpet, but he can't stop. He's thrusting so hard, his balls slapping against Brendon's ass before he can feel them start to tighten. Brendon grabs his hair again and lifts his head up for a kiss and it's over, Pete can't hold on, and he cries out in Brendon's mouth as he pushes in one last time, twitching as he comes.

"Sorry, sorry," he says as he struggles to catch his breath. Brendon shakes his head slightly as he drops his leg from Pete's waist to the floor with a thud.

"Shh," Brendon says. "So good, it's so good, Pete."

Pete can feel Brendon's hand start to move between them and he reaches down to pull out of Brendon slowly. Brendon whimpers, his hand moving faster, and Pete shoves two fingers into Brendon's ass without warning, crooking them against his prostate and Brendon lifts up off the floor with a cry, come spurting out of him as it hits them both on their chests.

"Fuck," Pete exhales. "So hot, fuck."

"Yeah," Brendon says and Pete can't tell if it's a question or agreement, but then Brendon is running his fingers through the come on his chest and bringing it to Pete's mouth. Pete doesn't even think, just sucks on Brendon's fingers, licking between them to get it all before he realizes he can't hold himself up anymore and collapses sideways, legs still tangled with Brendon's.

"So," Brendon says after a few minutes, "been thinking about this a long time?"

"Shut up," Pete answers, biting Brendon on the shoulder.

"It's okay, really." Pete swears he can hear the grin on Brendon's face. "I just thought, y'know, you being an old man and all, you'd last longer than—" Brendon breaks off laughing when Pete tickles him just below the ribs.

Pete pushes himself up on his elbows and grins down at Brendon. "Yeah, well, give me a few hours, and I'll show you who's old." It takes a minute, but he settles on his knees between Brendon's legs and pulls off the condom with a grimace, tying the end before tossing it on Brendon's coffee table.

"Ew," Brendon complains. "That's my table, dude."

"Whatever, like you haven't done worse to it." Pete pulls Brendon up with him as he stands, ignoring Brendon's protests that the internet _lies_ and steers them toward the bedroom for a much needed nap.


End file.
